We’re Moving!

WordPress has given us a lovely space for two (2) years! but it’s time for a change! You can still read everything we’ve published here, but this site will be inactive from now on!

Come say hi – it’s a housewarming party! www.hgfmag.com

Bring your friends!

Thanks for two years! Here’s to many more ❤

Heavy Metals // Beatrice Perusse

A gun goes off in an empty room

But the room is a forest and the bullet leaves ragged holes in every tree.

A gun goes off in an empty room,

But the room is a home and the bullet rips through generations of a family;

It punctures generations of flesh before it reaches you.

To go about destroying a people,

How should you start?

“Fire the gun,” says a man in a silk jacket, “then tell them all to heal around the bullet.

It’s hard to fight back with blood in your lungs.”

If enough years go by the alcohol stops sterilizing,

Starts putrefying,

And every child has more lead in their blood.

Seal the bottle-

If you want to be free

Open your chest,

Dig the bullet out.



Beatrice Perusse is a Classics student at the University of Toronto, and she can be found getting emotional in the mythology section of various libraries.


True // Terese Pierre

All the lines on my body

point to you. Lolling, you accept


this responsibility, the burden

of beacon and beckoning


Rubbing your skin feels like

rubbing a magic lamp,


letting you change my life

in three ways.


One: my parents kicked me out

in the middle of winter. I was


an adult then, but also impure,

they said. Under which wing


would the wide world tuck me?

Your arm was tattooed


and smelled like mint. I,

mimicking sleep, hoped


your own flesh would not

rid itself of art.


Two: someone who knew

someone who had a


crush on you, did a thing

for me and then my work is


in the hands of the most mighty.

They fly us to L.A.


On the beach, your hands are

on my bare stomach,


exploring passively with

tamped down wonder. No mistakes


here, you say when I turn

on my side. All good,


all different,

all generous.


Three: I can’t pin down

the object of your desire, or


as you call it, hot respect.

Do I allow myself to be used by you?


I suspect something within

my cells, in the lamina between


rain and saltwater spray.

You love to debate this, to prove


to me that I can prove to myself

I know my name. I open


my mouth to say my name,

and we share consonants


Each star in my eyes is

a kiss. Each hair on your head


is a manifesto. The skin of us

wants more, takes more



Terese Pierre is a Toronto-based writer, editor and organizer.





im Shaking coming down hard on caffeine at 2pm smoking

on the corner of 4th and vine, i put my hair up

in a bun and notice more people r checking

me out now not noticing the dozens

of potential lives waiting

in my sweater


under my big levi jacket

(which was a gift from Logan)

while squatting on my fresh new boots Continue reading “THE PACIFIC COAST TO WHEREVER // Andrew Gaddess”

dancefloor superstar & quetiapine // Maia Kachan

dancefloor superstar


you are: a best friend,

or whatever—


your pink lips

stain me with

purple ink, or

suck my skin

until it peels

inside you.


I hope I am


I hope you

keep me to

taste again



you are: a dancefloor superstar

but instead of going outside,


            we go dancing in my bedroom


and i  <  3 you very much.






antipsychotics are

not for sanity, but

to calm the buzz

rushing behind 

my tv screen 

eyes— as if

a stem is ripped

halfway. Left to

slip down, or rot

in the mess that

hides beneath

my impulse hair.

It’s a place for

decay, to hold

the facts that

drain from the

small, dark

corners of the

internet. They

fall into

my porous

mind, a

leech of

the manic





to blaze









Maia Kachan is a Canadian writer living and loving in Toronto.

Lost Star Catalogue // Ingrid Cui

jazz in the room
& black vinyl embossed with
grains of gold

amber light
from the mixing board
accompanies tapping shoes
as you look on

white negatives scattered over
the psychedelic tabletop
become images
& flimsy memories
ten cents for a polaroid

rainy august came in deep purple
& lovely
crisp october now
& the streets sing for the lilacs
that no longer bloom
in the president’s dooryard

sterling metallic sheen
& silk collar ties
blend together to the rhythm
of vulgar cynics

as your mouth traces
the words i would rather not hear
& the candle flickers faintly

minus ten cents for a polaroid

lost star catalogue
in a quiet room
& the band plays on



Ingrid Cui is from Toronto, Ontario, and spends her free time showing off her rather lackluster knowledge of postmodernism.